The office was shrouded in gloom. The desk lamp cast a faint yellow light; the rest was lost in shadow. Outside the glass, the rain fell endlessly—measured, persistent, as if trying to wash away the night itself. Seungho sat motionless in the chair, his face cold. But inside, there was no calm. Every time he looked at Do-yoon, his own words felt too sharp. He didn't want to hurt him. He wanted to protect him. But he had no language other than harshness.
Do-yoon stood by the desk, an open folder in front of him. His fingers clutched it tightly, and Seungho could see the tendons in his hands strain.
— You understand, don't you, - Seungho broke the silence, - that I've known who you are for a long time.
Do-yoon remained silent.
— A detective, - he said, deliberately calm, almost lazy. - Someone who could be sitting in his precinct, figuring out who stole a bike or whose dog shat outside a door.
Seungho smirked, but there was no joy in it. He spoke harshly, sharply, as if deliberately devaluing everything Do-yoon was doing. But internally, every phrase meant something else: stop, don't get involved in something that will tear you apart.
— You could be dealing with small matters, writing reports, drinking cold coffee, and not risking your own neck. - His voice dropped, becoming harder. - But instead, you stick your nose where every step could be your last.
He saw Do-yoon's face tense, and for a second, he wanted to soften the words. To say honestly: "I don't want anything to happen to you." But the words wouldn't come out.
— So why? - he asked sharply. - Why are you nosing around here?
Do-yoon looked up. His eyes shone in the lamp light, calm, almost stubborn.
— Because there are things that can't be dismissed.
Seungho leaned forward. His fingers clenched into a fist. He wanted to hit the table—not out of anger, but to drown out this absurdity. He wanted to scream: to hell with the cases, to hell with the truth, I want you to be alive. But instead, he ground out:
— Grand words.
He stood up and walked around the desk. His footsteps echoed heavily in the silence.
— Do you think anyone besides you cares about the missing people? They are searched for only until something louder appears in the news. No one needs them.
He stopped right in front of him. His gaze was searing, and his chest tightened.
— What do you want to find? The truth? Or justification for yourself?
Do-yoon didn't back down.
— I want to see it through to the end. Even if no one else needs it anymore.
Seungho smirked. But the smirk was bitter.
— Stubborn. You resemble a suicide who goes onto the roof during a storm. To prove he isn't afraid.
He leaned closer, almost touching his face.
— Just know this: unlike them, you might drag someone down with you.
Silence. Only one thought echoed in Seungho's head: I don't want that someone to be me. But he didn't say it. He didn't know how to speak those words. Do-yoon slightly lifted his chin.
— Then step aside if you're afraid.
Seungho froze. His breathing grew heavier. He understood that the phrase wasn't a taunt—it was a challenge. Pure and direct.
— I'm not the type to step aside, - he said quietly.
He walked to the window, looking at the rain, and spoke with his back turned.
— But if you keep walking down this path... you'll have to pay a price.
And I won't be able to stop you. Even if I want to. He didn't say the last part aloud. He just clenched his fingers into a fist. Do-yoon stood behind him, motionless. A wall grew between them. Not made of shouting, nor of anger. But of the desire to protect and the inability to say it directly.